


When The Stars Go Blue

by phangirlingforphan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phangirlingforphan/pseuds/phangirlingforphan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan’s a failing musician without a song who struggles to make rent every week, so he sits atop his flat block roof every night and stares out at the city wishing for inspiration. Phil is a dreamer who paints and works part time as a barista; he’s bright, wears lavender and is, in other words, everything Dan needs. And one night, he wanders up to the roof, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Stars Go Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got around to posting fics on here. I'm mostly known on Tumblr with the same username but so many people have asked me to use this website that I've caved. I might eventually archive all of my fics on here but for now I'll just add as I go because wow I have a LOT.

i.

'Dear Mr Howell,

While your music is technically perfect, it does not fit the conventions of our label and it is with regret that we inform you we cannot…

Kind Regards,

Chris Kendall

London Music Group'

Twenty letters he’s sent out, and not one record label wants his music.

It’s been a whole year traipsing in and out corporate, grey buildings and giving his demo tape in with the insistence that it gets listened to and absolutely nothing has changed.

He’s still miserable, he still barely makes ends meet, and he fucking hates his life.

He shrugs his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders against the bracing wind. He really should invest in a thicker woolen coat for the winter, but he simply can’t afford luxuries like this at the moment. It’s his worn, battered, tobacco smelling jacket or nothing.

365 days in this city.

It’s beautiful, of course; it is London after all.

Right now he’s sat on a makeshift seat of discarded boxes and junk people have abandoned up on this flat block roof, staring out at the glittering city and wondering if anybody truly does make it in this world.

Sure, some have money, more than they’ll ever need, and some have success, or love or philanthropy, but does any of this equal happiness?

If he was married to a guy or girl, had a couple of cute kids, a dog that greeted him every time he walked in the door after a long day at work and a paycheck that covered more than just rent, would he be okay?

The stars are visible from this high up. They shimmer above the smog filled city with a smug twinkle in constellations that he’ll never bother to learn the names of.

That’s one thing about the countryside he misses. In fact, aside from the cheaper bottles of vodka and packets of cigarettes in the local shop, that’s probably the only thing he misses.

He could be waltzing home in his usual inebriated state, after a quick fuck with some guy he never asked the name of, and he would glance up, see the stars and that crippling loneliness became that little bit less lonely.

Against the midnight blue canvas of London’s night sky emerge skyscrapers and thick clouds of smoke, obscured by neon signs from clubs and twenty four hour fast food restaurants.

The cityscape is alluring and beautiful but delve into it and you’ll drown beneath the realisation that you’re an insignificant cog in it’s entire corporate machine.

Perhaps he’s bitter from the rejection letters he has piled in a corner of his bedroom. Maybe those ivory keys he tries to project feelings onto just aren’t cutting it anymore.

His Dad never told him this was a good idea, and he can’t believe he’s chewing on the inside of his mouth and mulling over the idea of taking the law firm job with him after all.

Pack-up that piano. Place the guitar into the case. Take his heart off of his sleeve and dawdle ruefully back to the manure-smelling countryside.

It’s been three hundred and sixty five days and for the past three weeks he’s sat up here every night. Some nights, he drinks second-rate beer and flings the bottle caps off of side of the building. Other nights, he plays. His fingers will tremble and pluck at the tarnished silver strings and disjointed chords that reek of heartbreak and dissatisfaction will spill into the air.

Tonight he has no beer and no guitar - just the embers of cigarettes at his feet.

The latest rejection letter is scrunched into a tight ball in his fist and as fleeting anger courses through him he brings out the lighter he’s got stowed in his pocket and sets it alight.

The fire licks the black, printed ink and once he sees the words ‘regret to inform you’ have been burnt beyond legibility he tosses the ball behind him.

And then someone yelps.

He jolts in surprise and drops his lighter, whipping his head around to meet the source of the noise.

The stranger curses like a sailor and fumbles with a large object they’re holding. They dive to grab the other end of it and let out a small ‘phew’ once they have a better grip.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Dan asks, albeit slightly rudely.

“You just nearly fucking set my easel on fire!” the stranger complains. It’s a man by the sounds of it.

“Nice to meet you, too, you just nearly fucking set my easel on fire, my name’s Dan.”

The tut that comes from the man’s mouth is enough to make Dan stifle a snort.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” the man drawls. Under the meagre lighting of the one lamp on the roof, he can just about make out the man’s appearance.

They have a pale, soft edged face with these blue eyes that are shining even beneath the darkest of skies. A black, shaggy fringe falls across their forehead, skimming their eyelashes and making clear even further just how pale this man is.

Dan holds his hands up in mock surrender, “In all seriousness, dude, sorry for nearly setting you on fire.”

He sees the man cock his head to the side and shrug, “It’s alright. I just hope that wasn’t an important letter.”

“Nope, nothing I need to remember.”

There’s a pause as the stranger shuffles closer to Dan, their easel still tucked tightly under their arm and a small carry-case clutched in their left hand.

“Are you a painter?”

At that, the man laughs out loud. “No, I just carry this around for fun.”

Dan blinks several times, “Fuck and you call me out for sarcasm.” he mutters.

Now right beside him, the man puts the easel down and his case down, wiping his brow and sighing in relief.

“Those stairs are a nightmare. This better be worth it.” he says, but Dan’s not entirely sure he’s saying it to him so he stays quiet and twiddles his thumbs.

He watches as the man stops and stares out at the night. It’s not an awkward silence by any means. If anything, Dan’s transfixed.

The man’s jaw lifts into a smile, he even puts his arms out and does the rectangle thing artists in films do where they use their hands to frame a section of the landscape to draw.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the man says.

“Yeah, I suppose so. If you’re into that.”

The man furrows his eyebrows. “Into that? How can you not be into that? It’s mesmerising.” his arms swoops out and gestures to the sight before them.

“When you’ve lived here a year, the novelty wears off a bit.”

The man gives a wistful smile and says, “It’s been 27 years and I’m still in love.”

“Maybe I’m just looking at it the wrong way.” Dan suggests.

“I’m an artist, I see the beauty in everything.”

And then the man looks at him and gives him this look that Dan’s never seen before. It’s admiration, but Dan doesn’t know that.

“I’m Phil, by the way.” the stranger says, and he extends his hand to Dan. It’s dappled in a rainbow of pastels and violet splotches but he shakes it nonetheless; his calloused, worn fingertips are hardly anything to shout about.

“So, Phil,” Dan begins once they’ve dropped hands, “Do you live in the building?”

Phil nods, “Yeah I just moved in. I got transferred to a different coffee shop so I figured moving might be a good idea.”

“Different coffee shop? I thought you were an artist?”

“Oh, no, I am but gosh I can’t survive off of just doing this, especially living in London.”

Dan smiles sadly, “I know the feeling.” he murmurs. As the low hits, he craves the taste of a cigarette so he draws the packet from his jeans and lights one up.

Knees wide apart and elbow resting lazily on one, he scrapes a hand through his hair and takes a long drag, eyes closed.

He blows the smoke into the air above him creating an umbrella plume.

Each cigarette numbs the pain temporarily. He forgets his rejections. He forgets his fuck ups.

“What do you do, then?” Phil asks.

“Oh, uh, I play.”

“Guitar, right?”

“Yeah, how’d you guess?”

Phil smiles and gestures to Dan’s hands, “Your fingers felt like rubber. First sign of a guitarist.”

“You’re only half right,” Dan points out, “I play piano more.”

He shuffles his jacket and rolls his sleeves up. He doesn’t mishear the small “wow” that comes from Phil when his skin is shown.

“They must have hurt.”

Dan snorts, “There are things that hurt more in life than a needle.”

Phil comes closer, as if to inspect them, but draws back. “Do you mind me looking? Sorry, I’m an artist, drawings excite me.”

“Go wild, Phil.”

He shrugs out of the jacket to give Phil a better view. The swirls of colour patchwork across both his arms and run underneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt. Most of the colours are shades of black and grey, with indecipherable symbols and shapes blending into one, but streaks of vibrant greens and blues vein through the black.

“They’re epic.” Phil says.

“Thanks.”

“Where do you play piano? Anywhere local? Or do you have a record deal or something?”

Dan scratches at the back of his neck, “I, um, I play in the tube stations a bit, and if it’s nice weather I set up in parks.”

Phil breaks into a grin, “You’re a street musician!”

Dan gives a tight smile, “Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s honestly really cool. I knew you’d have an interesting job.”

He doesn’t dare tell Phil about the unpaid bills littered on his floor. He won’t mention that he’s not paid rent this month and his landlord is calling him every day. Phil thinks he’s interesting and that’s never been used to describe him before.

He settles for, “It has its ups and downs.”

Producing his packet of cigarettes again, he lights one up. Bringing it to his lips and closing his eyes, he inhales the toxins and exhales the pain.

And then he hears a click.

When he opens his eyes again, Phil is taking a photo of him.

“Did you just - ” he starts to ask, slightly confusedly.

“I’m sorry!” Phil apologises quickly, “You looked really good and I thought - ”

“Well don’t think,” Dan spits, “You don’t know me, don’t take a fucking photo of me without asking.”

He gets up from his seat and kicks the ground with the toe of his hi-tops, not giving a shit if they scuff.

“I’m sorry. You seem like a really great guy, Dan, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Phil tries again.

He’s so earnest and polite and it’s weird. Nobody is nice to him. Dan Howell is an asshole, he treats people like dirt because he gets treated like dirt. Eye for an eye.

“Well I’m not a great guy!” Dan exclaims. He drops the cigarette between his fingers and stubs it out with his heel. “In fact,” he continues, “I’m a worthless guy with no future, no friends and nobody gives a shit about me, so I suggest that you follow the crowd, Phil, and do what everybody else does when they see me and ignore my existence.”

He’s overreacting; he knows he is. Phil was a nice guy in a bright t-shirt with an even brighter personality and that’s why they could never be friends.

Dan’s the guy that smokes and wears leather jackets and has never said that the glass is half full. Nobody wants that sort of negativity in their life.

Phil says nothing at first and it’s not what Dan wants but it’s what Dan needs.

He should go. It’s gearing towards midnight anyway and he wants to get up early tomorrow to set up as the commuters arrive in Victoria.

Hands in pockets and feelings squashed, he ambles to the stairwell door.

“I’ve deleted it. We can forget it was ever taken.” Phil says quietly.

He hesitates in the doorway, one foot hovering over the first stair.

“I appreciate that.” he manages to reply.

“It isn’t my place, Dan,” Phil is stuttering, but his face is defiant and rosy cheeked, “However, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt, and I have learnt a lot, it’s that sometimes you need to allow yourself to be happy. And you, you could be happy.”

Phil’s eyes are blue like the mediterranean and his are coffee granules at the bottom of a mug.

Phil is interesting and he wears lavender and has a friendly smile and Dan only owns two pairs of black jeans and hasn’t worn a colourful top since PJ Liguori pushed him in the mud for wearing pink at school.

“Will you be back up here tomorrow night?” Phil speaks again, his tone is hopeful and Dan doesn’t understand.

“Every night.”

“Until tomorrow, Dan.”

“Goodnight, Phil.” he says it and he means it.

Phil deserves a good night. Phil deserves the moon, the stars and to have artwork in a national gallery. Sure, he’s never seen this guys work but he’s the nicest person he’s ever met and that’s got to count for something.

ii.

It’s Friday and four days have passed. In those four days, Dan has seen Phil every night.

On Thursday, he took the steps two at a time.

He learns that Phil doesn’t show his artwork off much and practises drawing in the foam of the lattes he makes at the coffee shop. He’s unabashedly brilliant and he’s everything Dan’s always wanted, and never had, in a friend.

Phil learns that Dan is unpredictable and he’s, surprisingly, okay with that. Some days he comes up to the roof angry and smoking twenty cigarettes in two hours. Other days he giggles and a dimple appears on his left cheek that Phil adores, because Dan’s still young and he deserves to feel it.

It’s the Friday night that the tables turn and Phil is the one in a bad mood.

The usual spring in his step has depleted to a slow trudge and his smile falters as soon as he reaches the roof.

Dan’s perched on a camping chair he’s figured was a good idea to bring up seeing as they’re here most nights and seats made of rubbish are hardly comfortable.

The first thing Phil says to him is, “Do you have your cigarettes?”

To which Dan nods and says, “Yeah, of course.” and holds them out with his lighter in tow.

He’s confused, naturally, as Phil doesn’t smoke and doesn’t seem the type to, either, but a bad day is a bad day and Phil at that moment is a classic example of ‘it’s been a day from hell.’

He takes the cigarette and fumbles with the lighter, managing to ignite it and the cigarette and then sticks it between his lips.

It’s a cautionary inhale and a cough and splutter later but Dan doesn’t laugh; none of this is funny and being poked and jibed at isn’t what Phil needs right now.

“So, my boss squeezed my ass today and offered me a raise if I suck him off in the stockroom.”

There’s a rush of anger and he can feel his fingers curling into a burning first by his knee. He’s not one to struggle to keep composure in serious situations but this one is riling him up in all the wrong ways.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him he was disgusting.”

“Anything else?”

“I threw a packet of coffee beans at his crotch. Missed, but it felt good.”

“That’s my boy.”

Phil gives a small smile and the melancholy he’s been harbouring begins to sail away, as if Dan’s words take the bad and replace it with the ability to keep going and hold his head high.

He’s worried about Phil’s reaction to the words ‘my boy’ and he wonders if the smile is permission to use the term again one day because it felt okay, but he doesn’t pry.

iii.

“So, why did you never leave London?” Dan asks.

They’re sat next to each other sipping cheap beer and huddled in bulky blankets that Phil’s thoughtfully provided. It’s a cold, Autumn evening and the winds are stabbing against your skin but neither of them want to leave.

“I love it here,” Phil replies, “I love the constant buzz of activity, y’know? It’s cosmopolitan and highly overpriced in some places, obviously, but you’re never stuck for stuff to do.”

Dan nods, “True,” he agrees, “But, fuck, this part is a shit hole, you have to say?”

Phil snorts at that, “Yeah, but that’s what happens when you’re a part time barista and a street musician.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dan grins. They hold their bottles up high and clink them together in mock celebration, and as Phil takes a sip Dan notices just how beautiful Phil looks in this light.

“Do you know the constellation names?” Phil asks.

It’s offhand and a little off topic, but Dan will roll with anything Phil says.

“Um, no, can’t really say I’ve ever been bothered to learn the names.” Dan admits sheepishly.

Phil’s finger points into the sky and says, “That bigger one by the moon, do you see it?”

“Yep.”

“The cluster beside it, that looks a bit like a spade?”

“A spade.”

“Shut up and learn about the stars. Do you see it?”

Dan chuckles, “Yes, Phil, I see it.”

“That’s ‘The Plough’. They’re the brightest stars in the sky.”

You’re the brightest star in my sky, is what Dan thinks about saying.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Dan replies. “Yeah it is.”

But he isn’t looking at the stars or the midnight sky. He’s looking at the ethereal human next to him with the space black hair and moon white skin and he can’t believe someone like him exists in this universe.

iv.

“Can you play a song for me?”

Phil asks him the question on a Sunday night. Dan’s brought his guitar up in order to change its strings and polish it up a bit, not that the battered thing is going to be able to be improved much.

“Oh,” Dan says, taken off guard. “Yeah, I guess so. Any requests, or?”

Phil simply shrugs and says, “Play whatever’s in your heart.”

You, Dan thinks, you’re in my heart.

“Sure.”

And he plays. But he doesn’t play a song he’s heard before. His fingers are trembling and plucking at the strings with a slow tempo and he can hardly stop himself let alone question what he’s doing.

Every thought and feeling breathes into each slippery, silver string and converts into a beautiful note that takes his pain away. It sounds like science, but it’s magical.

Phil’s watching him. He can feel it. His eyes are trained on him as he does every impulsive chord and with a slight glance he can see the smile on his face.

It’s almost 11 o'clock at night. He’s sat on the roof of a flat block. The stars are his backdrop. He’s with a person who’s put a smile on his face every day this week.

He stops playing.

“That was incredible.” Phil says. It’s the most genuine and kindest compliment he’s ever received. “What was it?”

He says the words before he begins to give a shit about them.

“It was you.”

Phil says nothing.

Dan puts his guitar down and kneels in front of Phil who’s wearing a look that Dan can’t decipher, and he kisses him senseless.

His hands are on Phil’s cheeks and it’s heated and heavy and Phil’s hands are in his hair and wrapped all around his heart in the best sort of way.

“Fuck,” Phil gasps, pulling away.

“I know,” Dan grins, “I know.”

Except Phil isn’t grinning back.

“No, Dan,” he says, scrambling to his feet, “Fucking hell this can’t happen!”

Bewildered, Dan asks, “Why not?”

Phil scrunches his hands in his hair and let’s out a groan, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dan this isn’t right.”

“Yes,” Dan starts to say, getting to his feet and clambering to Phil’s side, “Yes it is come on, you can’t deny that there’s something here, Phil I haven’t been this happy in years.”

There are tears springing in his eyes and he wishes them to go away. He needs to be strong and assertive and hold his own.

“We make sense.” is Dan’s final argument. “You must see this.”

“Dan, I have a boyfriend!”

It’s a stinging knife in the heart and Dan chokes on the words he can’t get out.

“I have to go.” Phil mutters quickly. He almost runs to the door, and the eagerness kills Dan.

“No, Phil, please.” Dan manages to beg in a hoarse whisper, “Please.”

Maybe he should tell him. He should tell Phil how he thinks, he should just do it. He half wants to weep and shout and punch the floor.

Phil is hesitating and Dan takes it as a good sign. He’s not ready to leave. He won’t walk out on him. He won’t.

“I’m - I think I love you.” Dan rushes the words and fuck he wishes he’d said them in a better setting.

The ground tilts as Dan waits for an answer.

“Dan I,” Phil is saying, but Dan knows the rest of the words.

“Let me explain, please, Phil I - ”

“I don’t want you!”

There’s a metallic, resounding bang and Dan doesn’t know if it’s the sound of the door slamming as Phil leaves him alone or the sound of his heart imploding.

v.

Phil’s not going to show up tonight, is he?

He’s sat up on the roof, he’s got his guitar, he’s had a shoddy day and his landlord has left him a letter with more profanities and threats in it that he’s used to.

Every discordant, meaningless note plays but it’s all off and it’s all wrong.

His head hurts.

A night of drinking vodka like water will do that.

He’s still sat on the roof and he’s still strumming.

Phil hasn’t shown up yet.

If life is about love why does it hurt so badly?

vi.

Winter comes.

It’s been two months of lonely evenings on the roof and he managed to pay rent this month but that meant he couldn’t eat today.

His parents are telling him to come home and get a proper job. Maybe he should listen. What’s he got left here, anyway?

The one person he cares about doesn’t want him. The record labels don’t want him. He doesn’t even want himself.

He packs the guitar into the ragged, patched up case and hauls it onto his back. Another day, another song to be played to the undeserving public. Another day for business men and women to sneer at him in disgust as they walk past on their morning commute. Pitiful looks from strangers at the unshaven man whose fingers are playing melodies that he doesn’t care about.

Today is his final day. He’ll play his songs, go home, pack his things and go back to the country. He’s given up and it hurts.

He’s halfway through his day when he decides to use what money he’s been given to buy a coffee, because caffeine is his only friend right now. Or at all.

It’s as he wanders to the closest shop that he stops himself from going in.

Frazzled, with a stirring stick behind his ear and those rosy cheeks he misses is Phil. Fuck.

He can see the long queue and a man with a smirk beside him who he assumes is Phil’s boss as they way he’s staring at Phil’s ass is borderline disgusting.

Phil looks unhappy. He wishes he could change that.

The idea hits him and the coffee is forgotten about it. Forget finishing his day and forget playing for the dullards of people who amble past him without a care.

Phil needs him, whether he knows it or not.

vii.

The CD slides under Phil’s door and Dan returns to his own apartment for what will be his last night.

All of his things fit into five small boxes. That’s his entire life right there. Five boxes.

He wolfs down his ten pence super noodles and takes a shot of vodka, grabs the guitar and goes to the roof.

It’s only fitting, he feels, that he spends his last night where he spent his first. Alone, with his music, looking at the city below him.

He plays the melody he’s learnt by heart and it reminds him of the man it’s all about. He misses the lavender or mustard jumpers, the way they hung slightly too baggy on him and contrasted with his skin tight jeans. He misses the tongue that poked out when he smiled widely. He wants the smell of vanilla and floral washing powder to greet his nostrils one last time.

He gives a final chord and inhales that murky, smog filled air a whiff.

“Don’t stop.”

The complete unexpectedness of the voice causes him to almost drop his guitar, he’s halfway through shouting expletives when he realises who the voice belongs to and sees a flash of purple.

“P-Phil?”

“That was beautiful, Dan,” Phil continues, he walks across to Dan and kneels in front of him. “Keep playing.”

And he does.

He plays the song that will never leave his head. He knows each chord like the back of his hand. Every single note is his world. Every single note is Phil.

“Why are you here, Phil?” Dan asks once he’s finished. He places the guitar on the ground and sits forward, hands wringing in his lap.

“Because of this.” Phil says. He holds up a CD in a plastic wallet. On the wallet are scribbled, black inked words that say ‘Phil. This one’s for you. Stay bright.’

“Did you like it?”

Phil half chokes and stumbles over his words, “Did I? Did I like it? Did I - of course I fucking liked it Dan!”

“Is that why you came here tonight?”

“Sort of.” Phil answers. He rakes a hand through his already unkempt hair and says, “It’s you, and your music and it’s me in the music. It’s enchanting.”

“You should hate me.” Phil stutters. Bu

“Bullshit. You know that isn’t true if you listened to it”

“I fucked up, Dan.” Phil has tears in his eyes and Dan wants to wipe them away and kiss the bags underneath them.

“So did I.”

“I fucked up more.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“I didn’t even tell you I loved you back and I’m such a fucking idiot I’m so sorry.”

Dan halts. “Sorry? Say that again?”

“I said I’m an idiot.”

“No, the first bit.” his heart thrums and pounds.

“I - I love you. I loved you the first night we spoke. You’re beautiful. Not just musically beautiful but you, you’re intoxicating. I couldn’t think properly after that night. I went home, I saw my boyfriend and…fuck he knew something was up. So after you kissed me, I broke it off. I just did it.”

“You love me.”

“I say all of that and you just tell me this in return.”

“It’s the only part I give a shit about, I’ll be honest.”

Gauntlets thrown. Hearts on sleeves. Emotions out.

“I love you, Dan.”

“I love you so, so much more, Phil.”

“I thought this wasn’t a competition?”

They collapse into each other and the grin on Dan’s face is hurts so much because he’s never grinned this widely before.

“I’ll never tire of those words.”

“I love you, I love you.” Phil says again and again.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Dan suggests, they stand up and he hooks an arm around Phil’s shoulder, bringing him into his side and kissing the top of his head.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere people can hear us say those words. I want to shout them and tell everybody I know that we’re in love.”

“And afterwards?”

Dan laughs a real bark of a laugh that echoes towards the sky.

“We’re going to go back to my apartment and I’m going to make love to you until you see your own constellations.”

Phil whispers, “Perfect,” against his chest. And it is. It’s all so perfect that he thinks he’ll wake up in a minute.

“Oh,” Dan pauses for a moment as they reach the stairs. Of course, he has inspiration now.

Phil looks at him quizzically. “What’s up?”

“And then I’m going to write a song because, fuck, my mind has bad timing but it’s simple, really, you’re my song, and you,” he kisses Phil’s cheek, “Are going to be my big break.”

He gets the feeling his next letter won’t be a rejection.

\- Fin


End file.
